


All Chains Left Behind

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Reunions, Sharing a Bed, Threesome - M/M/M, Valjean just really enjoys bottoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 09:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: How had they come to be here? Dimly, memories began to filter in—a storm that kept Boucard unable to make his way back home, a bottle of wine, the strange tension between these two men who had both owned him, each in their own way.ASold to the LawAU sequel.





	All Chains Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sold to the Law](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932542) by [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel). 



> This isn't Sold to the Law 'canon' in that I don't think Javert would really unbend enough to let this happen, but since _someone_ kept telling me how much they ship Valjean/Boucard, I couldn't get this what-if AU out of my head. :D

It was still dark when Valjean woke. There was a familiar presence to his right—and a just as familiar warmth to his left.

For a moment, drowsy, he drifted in and out of sleep, thinking himself back in the salle with Boucard pressed against him, reassuringly warm. Then, a moment later, he realized that there was a soft mattress beneath him—and that the man to his left was just as familiar as Boucard, although he had never slept on those wooden planks.

Shocked, Valjean opened his eyes, but the warm bodies remained pressed against him. There, to his left, his whiskers rough against his skin, Javert rested against him.

Valjean swallowed before he dared to turn his head—but he wasn’t dreaming. Valjean would have known him even in his sleep. To his right, Boucard was asleep, much older now, but something about his scent and the press of his body still just as familiar.

How had they come to be here? Dimly, memories began to filter in—a storm that kept Boucard unable to make his way back home, a bottle of wine, the strange tension between these two men who had both owned him, each in their own way.

How come that they had not offered Boucard their second bedroom? Valjean could not remember. And now, with the growing awareness of their bare skin pressing against his own, it was becoming harder to think.

He took a deep breath, feeling flushed. And then he realized that Boucard was awake.

Boucard’s hand, which had so innocently rested on his breast, had begun to move, slowly stroking him until Boucard’s fingers encountered a nipple. As Boucard traced it, a shameful surge of heat went through Valjean, his nipple stiffening as Boucard kept up the maddening stimulation.

A heartbeat later, Valjean realized that it was not just his nipple that had been roused by the touch—and that he was still resting against Javert, who would be intimately aware of his body’s treachery the moment he woke.

Then Javert’s lips brushed against his shoulder, and Valjean froze with dread. Javert was awake. How long had he been awake? Had he realized—

Javert’s leg shifted, pressing in between his own thighs—and pushing firmly against where Valjean was shamefully hard even now.

Javert chuckled into his ear, the sound low and sleepy. “Awake, are you.” He sounded pleased by his discovery.

Valjean felt his heart speed up with terror, too shocked to draw Javert’s attention to the fact that they were not alone—and that even now, Boucard’s fingers were teasing his aching nipple.

Then Javert drew a possessive hand over his chest as well, lightly tugging at some of the hair that grew there.

“Well,” he murmured, sounding pleased, “if you are up already, how about you say good morning to your friend? You would not mind taking it into your mouth again, would you?”

At Javert’s words, Boucard’s fingers stopped for a moment. Against his thigh, Valjean could feel his reaction to Javert’s crude suggestion: Boucard was hard, his phallus shameless as it dug into his hip with renewed vigor.

Valjean hardly dared believe that he had heard right. Surely this could not be true. Surely this was but a dream… Would Javert, who had bristled with jealousy from the first moment he had realized just who Boucard was, truly invite that man into their bed?

And yet, even now Valjean’s memory was fuzzy. What had happened during the past night? Too much wine, perhaps; he could not say. He did not usually indulge in such a way—but he had found it impossible to say no to either Javert or Boucard.

After all, he was safe now. He was no longer hunted, no longer in danger of a prison cell or a slave’s collar. He was with two men whom he trusted. Two men who he knew cared for him, each in their own way.

“Would you, Jean?” Boucard sounded intrigued and hungry. It was true: what comfort they had found in the bagne had been fleeting and crude. They had never done this thing Javert suggested… “Would you take it into your mouth for me?”

Boucard’s hand released his nipple to slide up to his face, gently stroking his cheek, and Valjean closed his eyes as he shuddered, nearly breaking apart at the tenderness of it.

“Of course I would,” he whispered, turning his head so that his lips brushed Boucard’s hand, feeling helpless at the onslaught of affection.

Would Javert truly want to watch such a thing? And yet, he had suggested it...

How many years had passed since Valjean had last felt the warmth of Boucard’s body so close? Was it not strange that he had known Javert far longer, and yet, now that Boucard had returned to his life, he could recall exactly how it had felt to rest next to him at night: warm, certain hands on his body, Boucard’s mouth against his neck, those blissful moments in a world of despair when everything fell away and there was only the touch and the warmth of the one person who had ever touched him with gentleness and desire?

Valjean watched as Boucard sat up. He was naked. Had they retired to bed like this?

Then his eyes fell upon Boucard’s shaft, and he forgot his earlier fears. Boucard was hard, the proud length stiff with blood, and his age belied only by the curls surrounding the base, which were white instead of the coarse black he remembered.

And yet, nothing else had changed.

Hesitantly, still aware of Javert to his other side, Valjean moved closer. He rested a hand on Boucard’s thigh, the muscles hard like corded rope beneath his touch. Then he lowered his head, his lips touching where his fingers had.

He had never touched Boucard like this: leisurely, unafraid, on a soft bed, without chains or guards to restrain them, with all the time in the world to devote to such exploration.

Slowly, he made his way upwards. He could smell Boucard’s arousal. He could only imagine the sight he had to make. And even now, when something inside his own stomach was tight with want, he could not forget the fact that Javert was observing him—judging him.

He hesitated, licking his lips. Boucard’s prick brushed his cheek, shockingly hot—and then Javert’s hand slid around his hip.

“Don’t let him come,” Javert said. His fingers rubbed over Valjean’s hip, comforting and possessive at once. “I know where you’d rather have him.”

At his words, Boucard made a low, amused sound. Warmth rushed to Valjean’s cheeks, but he could not deny that Javert was right. Not to these two men, who like no others had intimate knowledge of what pleased him.

Javert’s fingers slipped between his thighs, a fingertip trailing up his crease until it found his hole.

Valjean moaned as Javert rubbed his finger against it, his face hot with embarrassment when he realized a moment later that Boucard was laughing.

“No, you haven’t changed at all, have you?” Boucard murmured tenderly.

Boucard’s hands moved into his hair, caressing as he waited, leaving it to Valjean to set the pace—and Valjean at last allowed himself to turn his head and breathe his first kiss to the hot skin of Boucard’s prick.

Boucard moaned in encouragement. At the sound, Valjean at last found the courage to ignore his embarrassment. And between the three of them, what use was shame?

He reached out for Boucard’s shaft, using his fingers to gently smooth the foreskin further back, and then wrapped his lips around the head.

It felt velvety-soft and hot in his mouth, and as he ran his tongue around it, he could taste the salt of Boucard’s arousal.

How often had he felt this same hard length hot against his hip or between his thighs? Forty years had passed since those days. Forty years before he could explore at his own leisure with no chains on him, feeling the heat and the weight of Boucard on his tongue as he allowed him to slide deeper into his mouth.

His caresses made Boucard’s fingers tighten in his hair. He groaned in appreciation, and Valjean drew back, circling the glans with his tongue until more of Boucard’s saltiness filled his mouth.

And then Javert’s hands were back between his thighs, spreading his buttocks.

A muffled sound escaped Valjean when Javert’s prick pressed against his hole. Javert was hard and hot, slick with oil, and he wasted no time.

Javert slid inside him with one long thrust, fire springing up inside Valjean at the relentless penetration. He moaned almost desperately, arching his back, digging his fingers into the sheet—but Javert gave him no break.

Slow but certain, every thrust filled him to his core, the friction so overwhelming that he could feel his own prick jerk against his stomach every time Javert pushed inside. And then Boucard’s hands tightened in his hair again, gently but determinedly returning his mouth to its task.

It was difficult to concentrate with his entire body trembling at Javert’s assault. Valjean had to fight to keep from reaching down and touching himself. Then Boucard’s fingers slid over his cheeks, finding his lips, tracing their spread around his own sizeable arousal.

“If you don’t want me to finish like this,” Boucard said, low and breathless, “you had better hurry.”

Valjean moaned another muffled sound of need around his length, swallowing around it as every motion of Javert inside him set his nerves on fire. His own body ached, his neglected prick smearing wetness across the muscles of his stomach as Javert continued to fill him with deep, certain thrusts.

And then Javert’s hand clenched around his balls, with just enough force that the ache of it acted as a weight against the maddening pleasure of Javert’s possession of him, keeping him in the balance as he panted helplessly around Boucard.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Javert buried himself inside Valjean with a final, vigorous thrust, groaning with pleasure as he spilled himself inside him. “I’ll let him make you come. You want that, don’t you?”

Valjean’s lips felt swollen and sore, wet with his own saliva as he at last pulled back, too overcome to speak. Even so, Javert laughed knowingly, his hand lingering on Valjean’s hip even as he pulled out.

Still face to face with Boucard’s sizable arousal, Valjean licked his lips again. He still wondered if it was a dream—certainly it could not be real. To have everything he desired and more, after so many years...

Boucard’s hand took hold of his chin. The pad of his thumb was rough as it stroked his wet lips, then slipped inside for a moment.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again—least of all feel this.” Thoughtfully, Boucard looked at Valjean, who tentatively wrapped his tongue around his thumb.

His skin tasted salty, and even now, the experience did not seem entirely real to Valjean.

They had never touched like this before. Despite of how often Boucard had possessed his body, they had never touched leisurely, with unhurried tenderness, without the weight of chains and the cruelty of society crushing them into the ground even as they strained against each other.

At last, Boucard pulled out, his thumb gently pressing against Valjean’s bottom lip. Then he leaned in, brushing his lips against Valjean’s instead.

“On your back,” he said when he pulled back, his eyes dark and his voice rough.

Valjean could feel his heart hammering in his chest when he complied. His prick rested swollen against his stomach, a steady, ever-present ache. He allowed his legs to fall open. Against his shoulder, he could feel Javert’s warmth; then Javert’s hand stroked down his chest, finding a nipple to tweak until Valjean’s eyes fell shut and he arched with a gasp.

Meanwhile, Boucard settled between his legs, his hands on his knees spreading him even wider. Valjean could feel the heat of Boucard’s own arousal against his thigh, even as Boucard’s fingers found his exposed hole, the pad of his thumb tracing the rim, then slipping easily inside.

Boucard chuckled softly and pulled out again. “So that is why,” he said, and a moment later, a finger smeared wetness across Valjean’s stomach.

When Valjean opened his eyes, still dazed, he saw that Boucard was staring at Javert, his eyes still dark and aroused, but now also gleaming with amusement.

“You will only let me fuck him after you’ve staked your claim. You like the thought of him wet with your spend as I fuck him, isn’t that right?”

Valjean made a soft, shocked sound, unable to breathe for a moment, although the steady arousal pounding in his veins had flared into something even brighter.

Javert did not answer, but his fingers pinched almost cruelly around Valjean’s nipple before releasing him, massaging the aching nub of flesh until Valjean’s hips arched mindlessly towards Boucard.

Boucard’s smile widened. “Fortunately, I don’t mind at all. And neither, I think, does Jean. Do you?”

Valjean swallowed, embarrassedly aware of the warm trickle of Javert’s seed as Boucard grabbed hold of his cock and teasingly rubbed the head of it against his hole.

That was new, too. There had never been time or privacy for teasing. What tenderness they had shared was that of rough, fast touches—there had been no time for playfulness.

“But I see some things haven’t changed at all,” Boucard murmured. “Out of all the men I’ve known, there was never anyone enjoying it as much. And this time, no one’s going to complain about your moans. So how about you show Javert how loud you can be?”

Valjean swallowed, his heart giving another thump at the idea of Javert watching him. And then Boucard pressed in, the large head of his cock stretching him open easily.

He could feel the sensation of Javert’s spend dripping out of him, still warm, even as he could feel Boucard sliding inside, his body eagerly tightening around him. Overwhelmed, he gasped for breath, wrapping one arm around Boucard’s shoulder as he arched again.

Boucard chuckled again, slightly breathless, and only then did Valjean realize that the nearly unbearable pleasure had forced a first, loud moan from him.

He dug his nails into Boucard’s skin as he clung to him, his hand sliding down to clench around the base of his own prick to try and fight back the arousal that burned within him every time Boucard filled him, again and again.

“There, that’s what I was talking about.” Boucard looked down at him with fondness in his eyes. “Hear that, Javert? You could’ve heard him moan like that in Toulon. Of course, back then, I had to tell him to keep quiet.”

Again Boucard’s hips came forward. Another moan escaped Valjean, who squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head into the pillow as he tried to make it last.

His balls were tight and aching, his cock throbbing painfully with every beat of his heart. And then there was another touch, a hand moving through his sweaty hair.

“Look at you,” Javert muttered, his voice rough. His hand trailed down Valjean’s chest again, finding his other nipple to roll it lightly between his fingers.

Again Boucard thrust into him, and Valjean arched helplessly, tossing his head back and forth as he tried to stave off orgasm. He could hear Javert chuckling into his ear, Javert’s fingers still lightly teasing his nipple, even as Boucard kept filling him with thrust after thrust.

Finally, desperate, Valjean let go of his own shaft to wrap both arms around Boucard’s neck, his entire body as tense as a bow-string as he hung in the balance—and then Javert’s hand slipped down his sweat-slick chest, long, strong fingers wrapping around his prick.

One slow stroke, and Valjean was undone. Dimly, he heard himself cry out, Boucard’s hips driving deep into him one final time. Then Boucard, too, was spilling himself while Valjean still trembled through his own climax, his shaft relentlessly milked by the strokes of Javert’s demanding hand.

For a long moment, Valjean could hear no sound but the thundering of his own heartbeat.

Eventually, Boucard moved off him, and someone nudged him gently. Utterly exhausted, Valjean rolled to his side. A moment later, an arm came around him. The sound Javert made was little more than a low growl, but he sounded smug and utterly satiated, his hand slowly stroking the patch of burned skin over Valjean’s heart.

On his other side, Boucard rested, and when Valjean finally managed to open his eyes again, he saw that Boucard was watching him, looking just as satisfied as Valjean felt.

“Well. That was certainly a welcome I didn’t expect.” Slowly, Boucard’s hand ran up Valjean’s hip to curve around a buttock.

“A welcome I trust you will not overstay,” Javert said.

Boucard laughed. “I’m certain I won’t. Business in Saint-Mandé is good. Still… it’s good to see you doing so well, Jean. Even if it is in ways I never expected.”

His hand took hold of Valjean’s chin again, and for a moment, Valjean found himself subjected to those penetrating eyes once more, which made him blush from how well they knew him.

“And yet, in other ways, you have it exactly how you like it, don’t you?”

He moved in to kiss Valjean, his touch achingly tender despite the assuredness with which his tongue entered his mouth.

Behind him, Valjean could hear Javert chuckle, still sounding satiated and relaxed.

“Don’t let him fool you. In many ways, he’s always had it exactly how he likes it.”

A sentiment, Valjean had to admit, that had truth in it, even though it perhaps wasn’t entirely fair. At the time, there had been reasons why he had never even thought of asking Javert’s opinion.

Still, now that he was resting on a soft mattress, with the warm skin of two men whom he had both loved—still loved—each in their own way damp and hot against his own, it was difficult to feel anything but overwhelmed gratitude. For so long, he had thought happiness unattainable, had imagined that it would be ripped from his heart together with Cosette.

And now, not only did he have the comfort of Javert’s love, but God had also granted him the return of the man who once had been his only light in the darkness of Toulon, a man he had nearly forgotten, together with so much of his past, and then found again.

He smiled against Boucard’s mouth, raising an arm to wrap it around his shoulder and press himself close, selfishly greedy. Javert chuckled against his neck as if Valjean’s actions had proved him right, his hand stroking possessively along Valjean’s thigh, even as Boucard kissed him unhurriedly.

How strange to find himself sharing a bed with both of these very different men. How strange—and how strangely right. And even if, perhaps, they would never speak of this again, Valjean was glad to have known Boucard’s embrace once more—an embrace that had been all pleasure, and no despair, all chains long since left behind.


End file.
